


P.T.S.D.

by Captain_Panda



Series: Cap'n Panda's Whumptober 2020-21 [18]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Attacks, Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Happy Ending, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Whump, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:00:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29280333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda
Summary: Their love doesn't exist because they are perfect.Their love exists because they are both trying to make it in this world.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Cap'n Panda's Whumptober 2020-21 [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953019
Comments: 4
Kudos: 76





	P.T.S.D.

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow, I still don't feel like this fic has enough tags.
> 
> I want to spoil this fic, just a little, by saying that it starts off very emotionally demanding and gets progressively less harrowing. If you can make it through the first two segments, you are golden.
> 
> You all are wonderful, and I appreciate you immensely.
> 
> Many thanks and much love,  
> Cap'n Panda
> 
> P.S. Happy 50 works! <3 Cheers to many more.

Big—gulping—desperate lungfuls of air.

“Tony, Tony,” Steve said, both hands on his side, trying to pull him back to the present. “Don’t go there. Stay with me.”

Curled into a loose ball, both fists jammed against the arc reactor, Tony shook under Steve’s hands. Although both eyes were squeezed shut, Tony wasn’t dreaming. He just wasn’t fully _there_ , either. “Come back to me,” Steve said, soft but persistent. “Stay with me, it’s okay. You’re safe.”

Between one gulping breath and the next, Tony moaned, “I’m sorry.”

Steve wanted to strangle _somebody_ , but the only somebody around was Tony, and Tony needed him to be calm. “You’re home, Tony,” he reminded. “You’re with me, we’re okay, we’re safe. We’re in our bed. You can feel it, feel it under you? You’re not alone, Tony, I promise.” He rubbed Tony’s icy skin with his own warm palms.

Tony started hyperventilating. Steve cursed internally. He knew there was so little, so _damn_ little he could do, but it still felt like his own fault, like watching somebody bleed out in front of him, when things got worse before they got better. “Hey, hey, hey,” he hushed, sliding his arm under Tony’s shoulders, hauling him up against his chest. “Hey, hey,” he repeated, soft, close. “Listen to me. I know, I know you’re scared, and I know you don’t believe me, but I’m here, Tony. We’re home, we’re safe, nobody can hurt you.”

 _I checked all the locks, and all the doors, and I’ll kill anyone who compromises that_ , he added silently. “Believe me,” he pleaded. “We’re okay.” He still threw up when he thought of enemy soldiers’ faces all caved in, the gore and viscera exposed beneath the wide-eyed humanity, but he would strangle the men who had done this with their own guts, if given half the chance. He wanted to do unspeakable things to the people who hurt those he loved. He quelled the anger by pressing his cheek against the top of Tony’s head, insisting, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

It wasn’t, it never would be, but finally, Tony’s breathing hitched and his trembling body melted in Steve’s hold, his hands limp claws that hooked into Steve’s shirt. “It’s me,” Steve assured him, feeling more of the terror abate, leaving exhaustion and uncertainty in its wake. “I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Tony didn’t respond. Steve—well, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t _want_ Tony to, but he didn’t push it, holding on, feeling the seconds tick by, wishing there was some way he could rip the monsters out of Tony’s head and pummel them into submission. There were times when his anger was so real he couldn’t even be the one to help Tony—when he saw red and knew he’d hurt somebody if they resembled the demons too closely. 

Steve had been pumped full of more testosterone than any man should be able to hold and trained to kill with a sniper’s precision. It was scary, sometimes. Sometimes, the lines between a good mission and a cold-blooded murder were jagged. Yet he would take the paralysis of not knowing when to lash out over the helplessness of watching his partner suffer silently.

Thank God it wasn’t silent, he thought, holding Tony almost too tightly, desperate to hold him, to make it better. “It’s okay,” he promised again, like that made a difference. “We’re—”

Tony patted his arm mutely. His breathing still had a sharp edge, like he’d narrowly outrun a monster. Steve wanted to beg, _Show me its face; I’ll rip its heart out_. Instead, he made his hold soft and welcoming, affirming aloud, “I’ve got you.”

Finally, Tony rasped, “I really almost drowned, that time.” His shaking kicked up; Steve squeezed him, willing the fear away.

“Feel me?” he asked. Tony nodded against his chest. “We’re together, Tony.” He didn’t say, _Safe and sound at home_. He knew Tony could deduce that, on some level, but there was a shaking, terrified beast inside Tony convinced it was being held at gunpoint, and Steve couldn’t rip away a gun he couldn’t see. The best he could do was the best he could do. “We’ll get through this.”

Tony sobbed, once. Steve knew it was hard to hear. He knew it didn’t help. He also knew that it was the only way through. “Just hold onto me,” he said, using one hand to cover the vice-like grip on his shirt. “Hold onto me. I won’t let you go.”

Tony shivered and held on, silent, dry-eyed, hunched in his arms. “I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I swear to God, Tony—”

There was nothing else he could do.

. o .

“Do you know who I am?”

It wasn’t a rhetorical question, even though Iron Man and Captain America had spent more time on the field than most partners-in-crime. Never mind the off-the-clock relationship Tony Stark and Steve Rogers had. Tony eyed the kitchen knife in Steve’s hand and asked through the helmet’s filtration, “You see something?”

Steve stared straight ahead, almost looking through the metal. There was something burning in the kitchen. Tony said calmly, “J., mind turning off the stove?”

“At once, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. replied.

Tony didn’t realize his mistake until the click of the stove launched Steve from his crouched position near the wall to a full-body spring. Tony thought, _Good thing I have the armor_ , as the suit puppeteered him, catching the knife before it could break itself on the front of the suit. His own reflexes weren’t fast enough to capture the shift from docile to violent. All he really registered was the aftermath—one hand holding Steve’s wrist, the other holding the knife. Calmly, he released Steve’s wrist, then said, “Why don’t we sit down?”

Steve just stared at him, unnervingly quiet. Then he said, in perfect Italian, “ _How many are there_?”

Tony weighed his options. Responding in Italian was probably a very bad idea. He started, “There’s no one else—” and Steve tripped him.

Steve really slowed down for his teammates, Tony thought, staring at the ceiling and watching the blue dot representing Steve’s heat signature trounce about the room, overturning furniture with jerky movements, making himself skittish with the noise. He was one wrong move away from a swan dive Tony could intercept but which might serve only to worsen his mental state. Tony pushed himself to a seated position. Still speaking in Italian, Steve snapped at him, “ _I know you have them!_ ”

“Steve,” he said, quietly broken on his behalf. “There’s no—” He stopped, swallowed. “They’re gone,” he said, truthful and hurtful.

Steve buried his hands in his hair briefly, like he knew that, some part of him recognizing the truth. Then he let out a brief, inhuman wail, like a wounded animal. It made the hairs on the back of Tony’s neck stand up. He dared to step closer. “You’re in New York,” he announced, even though Steve shook his head, over, and over, almost hurting himself with the force of it. “It’s—”

“ _Stop lie to me!_ ” Steve said, his message breaking along with his voice. “ _I’m not stupid!_ ” He looked around at the carnage he’d created, face ashen. “ _Where are they?_ ” he asked, desperate. “ _They were here!_ ”

Tony drew in a fortifying breath, setting the knife carefully aside. “Cap,” he said, and was rewarded with those haunted eyes looking at him, hopeful and hopeless at once. “They’re all gone.”

It was like cutting the strings to a puppet. With alarming rapidity, Steve’s knees folded, and he hit the concrete floor with an audible _smack_. Tony winced behind the armored helmet, but Steve didn’t make a sound, hunched, silent. One hand reached out, almost on a whim, feeling around for something.

Tony narrated every step: “I’m coming over. I’m not gonna hurt you. We’re on the same team.” He stayed about five feet apart. It didn’t matter—Steve could take him down from across the balcony room—but it was comfortingly close without crowding. “This is a loss,” he acknowledged, speaking almost like a mission report, “and there’s—” Even his throat clenched up for a moment, struggling to verbalize what he never wanted to say: _There’s no fixing it. There’s no right answer. There’s no_ —“There’s no going back.”

Steve just stared at the floor, eyes red, not blinking. His fingers flexed again, almost dragging over the concrete, searching for something. “Steve?” he tried, gently.

Steve said nothing.

“I’m so sorry,” he offered, even though it made his own throat tight. “I wish I could—” He let the sentence hang, unfinished.

Steve’s fingers stilled, then twitched. He whispered, almost desperately pleading, “ _They were people_.”

Tony could not respond to that. Not a single phrase existed in either language to convey his shared sorrow. So he said simply, “I’m coming closer. I’m not gonna hurt you.” He matched action to words, then, carefully, slid his metal hand towards the one nearest to him. “I know you’re hurting. I don’t want you to do it alone.” He slid his metal fingers around Steve’s human ones. Steve could still hurt him, badly. Tony didn’t care. Steve’s anguish was palpable; it felt like a heavy fog Tony couldn’t cut through any other way. “I’m here,” he insisted softly. “I’m too late, but I’m here, Cap.”

Steve didn’t even look at his hand, or respond to his voice. Tony talked quietly, reassuring him that the families would be okay, that the fighting was over and the war was over and they _had_ won, no matter the cost. Steve hunched forward, imperceptibly at first, but noticeable as time went on, almost backbreaking in his grief. Tony tensed when the door slid suddenly open, and Bruce uttered a strangled sound that might have been an apology or a question, before Steve just collapsed forward, forehead pressed against the concrete, grieving silently.

Tony let go of his limp hand to tentatively unlock the gauntlet, pressing his own hand against Steve’s bowed back instead. His posture was eerily perfect, almost prayerful. He did not shake or make a sound, but Tony knew he was weeping.

The door slid shut behind Bruce. Small mercies.

. o .

“I, um.” Tony hated it. He hated asking, he hated needing, he hated—well, he hated that he could already feel the trembling in his bones, the uncertain foothold before the precipice. “I can’t—”

Sitting on the couch, Steve encouraged, “C’mere.”

Tony shivered at the thought. Or maybe he just shivered. “No, I’m a mess, I—” Then, afraid he would slip off the edge if he didn’t find solid ground _soon_ , he very nearly crawled into Steve’s arms, trying not to think about how musty he was after the six-hour flight. “This? Me? Is on you.”

“’m okay with it,” Steve said.

They were quiet for a short time. Steve’s breathing was very steady, deep and even. His radiator warmth sank into Tony like a blanket. Slowly, tense muscles unlocked. “I just wanted to get the plane off me,” he finally blurted out.

“Okay,” Steve said. Just that, _okay_. Not _why_ or _what’s your move_ , but _okay_. 

It wasn’t okay. If it was, then Tony Stark would be able to take a shower in an unfamiliar place without working himself into a frenzy about it.

“I didn’t think it would be a problem,” he ground out, half-furious, half-empty. “I didn’t—” _Think_ , he didn’t need to add. “I don’t want to go home,” he added wearily. “We just got here. We _just_. . . .”

“Yeah.” Steve rubbed his side, apparently not alarmed by the sweat. How dare he not mind? Part of Tony wanted to snap at him, to sneer at war dogs all huddled together in the mud, piping on about Steve’s lack of _standards_ while Steve was busy trying to survive the deadliest war in history. “S’okay,” Steve added, almost like he could hear the mean little voice that needed attention to be placed elsewhere. “I don’t mind,” he reiterated.

“I am not _beneath this_ ,” Tony said, furious anger and genuine anguish mixing.

Steve held him together. “Would it help if I came with you?”

Tony bit back his immediate furious response. He had not come to Steve to berate Steve on perceived or real character flaws. He had come to do exactly this—to ask for _help_. Hearing it, verbalized, still tugged on his collar, tightening his throat and encouraging him to walk away.

“Um,” he managed, which wanted to be both an emphatic yes _and_ no. _I don’t want to need you, or anyone like you. I want to be_ me _. To be free. Why can’t I be above this?_

“You don’t have to,” Steve said. “You don’t—”

“I’ll dream about it,” Tony admitted, grimacing as he realized the truth of the statement. “I don’t want to dream about it.” _Please help me. There’s a monster under my bed_.

“Okay,” Steve said.

No more, no less. It was infuriating. It was calming. He couldn’t pick a big fight about it, not without revealing his own cards. Steve stood with him on the precipice, neither pulling him away nor pushing him towards the edge.

“I want to try,” Tony said, wincing at himself at how childish it sounded. “I make no promises.”

Steve kissed his temple and said, “Then let’s try. With no promises.”

. o .

Malibu was pleasant. Warmer than New York, which was nice. 

Steve had mixed feelings about the cold. He had only blank pages where certain critical memories were supposed to be, like his time in the arctic. Images of himself in a block of ice in various states of decay were haunting enough to send him into long, icy stretches of silence, suddenly alone in his crowded world. If he was lucky, someone would happen upon him and persuade him that he wasn’t frozen at all, but alive. If he was unlucky, it could take hours to reconnect, to reorient himself to the present.

He was not afraid of the cold, to go near it, to even immerse himself in it, but he had punishingly little control over his reactions to it. Like a flinch from a loud bang near his ear, he was trained to shut down when the ice soaked into his skin. It was how he survived. Yet too often, his very same survival strategy prevented him from living.

So, when Tony volunteered they spend the colder months on the warmer coast, Steve was happy to oblige. He liked the idea of getting out of the city for a while, if only because it frightened him a lot. He wasn’t sure why it frightened him, at first—it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen the world, at least, the European theatre part of it—but then he realized that the last time he had left home, he had returned in the wrong century. It had taken more courage than he would have liked to get on the plane.

“I wasn’t worried, with Loki,” he admitted, as Tony worked on a crossword puzzle and sat next to him, one of Steve’s icy hands gripping Tony’s leg for support. “Guess I had other things on my mind.”

“Permutations,” Tony said, gaze focused on his crossword puzzle. “Sort of—mathematical sentences. Order matters.” He deliberated over an answer, then wrote _semaphore_. “So, A-B-C doesn’t bother you, but B-C-A does. Going to war is one, two, three, A-B-C. Flying for leisure. . . .” He filled in another word: _lepton_. “That’s B-C-A. Two-three-one. Shift the order, the whole experience is radically new. Ask me sometime why I shower at night.” Then he looked up, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, habitual in public.

Steve didn’t need to ask: he could see the answer. _A-B-C. Not B-C-A._

Tony held his hand the entire flight. Correction: Tony sat, hip-to-hip on a private jet, working methodically on his crossword puzzle, providing the quiet distraction that Steve needed to forget how radical it was to voluntarily leave the city. And Steve kept one hand anchored on Tony’s knee.

. o .

Watching Tony Stark go about his life was a lot like being backstage to the greatest show on Earth.

It was big band fun, somehow in step even when none of it was scripted. There was a rhythm to Tony’s life that Steve knew, a cadence he found both joyful and humbling. Yet there were moments of quiet, too—quiet in thought, quiet in fatigue, or simply quiet to watch the sun set.

This was—none of them.

“You okay?”

Tony’s hands shook as he worked. He said nothing. Steve could tell he was _there_ —his shoulders bunched, his demeanor went from lethargic to lightning, moving around the space like he could get away from the question if he got away from Steve.

The thing was—the door was open. And Tony only left the lab door open for one reason.

Steve liked his place, backstage, observing. He liked that he didn’t need to contribute to progress the same way that Tony did, that Iron Man marched on without his input. He was a soldier, and Tony was a magician. Their relationship was often a nebulous space of grounded inquiry and wistful dreams. The artist-soldier and the scientist-magician.

“I think it’s beautiful,” Steve said, looking at the discarded remains of the latest suit. And it was beautiful—he wasn’t sure if Tony was capable of making ugly things—but Tony scowled at him, face almost turned away as he flickered around a cabinet. “I think you did a great job.”

“It’s mediocre,” Tony dismissed. His voice was deadpan but present.

Steve picked up the silver helmet. Tony snapped, “Don’t touch it.”

Steve insisted, “It’s beautiful, Tony.”

Tony stormed over and snatched the helmet from his hands. He looked like he might cast it aside vengefully, before simply dropping it, with contemptuous fury, to the floor. It landed with a loud thrumming sound, unique and strange to the suits, a consequence of their shock absorption. Tony’s face flushed with anger as he glared at the helmet, then kicked it aside, after all.

Steve watched it spin off into a corner, then, calmly and quietly, walked over and retrieved it.

“No amount of armor is going to make this world safer,” Tony sneered at him. “This is— _peanuts_ , we need— _bigger_ , more effective, more—” He went very still when Steve turned around, wearing the helmet.

“Is it about the world,” Steve asked quietly, “or _you_?”

Tony looked at him like he’d never seen him before. His eyes were wider, his expression more open. Like he honestly hadn’t ever seen his own creation before—not from the outside, anyway. And that was the terrible privilege of being the showman—he never got to _see_ his own work, only show it. The punchline of his own jokes didn’t make him laugh anymore.

“Because I think,” Steve went on, keeping his voice measured in the helmet so it wouldn’t rattle around too much, “that if it makes you safer, it’s an investment worth making.”

Tony strode across the space, then pressed both hands against Steve’s chest. For a moment, Steve expected a shove, a rebuke for crossing a line. But Tony just shut his eyes, head bowed slightly in mute weariness, hands braced against him, and Steve rested his forehead against the top of Tony’s head.

“You’re so beautiful,” Steve whispered, almost like he wouldn’t hear it. And he didn’t mean the exterior, although he always did—but Tony Stark, _the_ Tony Stark, was magic. Pure and simple.

Tony didn’t lift his head, but he slid his hands to Steve’s waist, holding on, quiet in a different way.

. o .

Tony would never quite understand Steve Rogers.

Maybe it was the way he was simultaneously so human and so _not_. Or, at least, not human in a way Tony was used to. He was a true interloper, existing outside his preferred bracket. It was mesmerizing to watch him interact with the world, unimpeded by instructions. 

Tony’s favorite moments were the ones where Steve did not seem completely aware of him, absorbed in his task. Steve delighted in simple things, like clothes fresh out of a dryer, taking a moment to rub them against his face when he didn’t think Tony was passing by. He lounged on the carpet like sand on a beach, a book in hand, an arm tucked behind his head, at peace with his surroundings.

Yet it was watching him interact with non-living entities that most entranced Tony. 

The Roombas had been an afterthought in Tony’s ever-modernizing world. He had spent some initial time enhancing them, ensuring that they would keep the floors truly sparkling, but then he had almost shelved them from memory. They were as ordinary as clocks on the wall. And like clocks, they moved in predictable patterns. There was really nothing remarkable about them.

So, it was with some surprise that Tony stepped out of his lab, late one night—or was it early one morning?—and saw Steve at the end of a hallway, giving a Roomba a pat on its round head, just like he might pat a dog. Unaware of his human audience, Steve set a penny in front of the Roomba, which it happily consumed.

Tony surreptitiously checked the Roombas’ hoards and found, among other expected clutter, fifty-eight cents worth of pennies.

Primed to look, he caught more instances of Steve “feeding” the Roombas, always with a pat on the head or a word of presumable appreciation, low enough even Tony couldn’t hear it.

The Roombas were supposed to return to their recharge stations well before they were on fumes, but one evening, Tony was visited in the lab by none other than Steve carrying a softly whining Roomba in his arms.

There was a sad, almost beleaguered look in his eye, one far too mournful for a machine. “Please fix it,” he asked.

Tony nodded, then, when Steve refused to hand over the Roomba, met his eyes. “I will,” he said.

Steve held onto the Roomba a moment longer.

“You have to let me,” Tony reminded.

Steve swallowed. Then he mutely passed the Roomba over.

Putting it at the appropriate charging dock would have been the simple answer, but he’d promised to fix the Roomba, so he did, unclipping its battery pack and swapping it out. The Roomba instantly tried to glide off the table.

Steve caught it mid-plummet. Then he set it gently on the floor, where it paused a moment. Steve didn’t even look at Tony, face almost expressionless as he set a penny in front of the machine, which swept it up before puttering off to new pastures.

Tony watched the Roomba go, expecting Steve to follow.

Steve lingered in the lab. “Thanks.”

Nodding absently, Tony replied, “Don’t mention it.” He saluted Steve with a wrench. “It’s my special skill.”

Steve looked bereft for a moment, gaze on the wrench, like he wasn’t sure if it, too, was alive. Tony offered lightly, “Nice of you to help it out.”

Steve said, “Can’t leave a dog—a ‘bot, out in the streets, like that.”

“You can,” Tony said flippantly. “I find them. Eventually.” He did—but there was something in Steve’s eyes, solemn and sad, that prompted him to add, “It’s nice of you to help them.”

Steve nodded again, then finally turned away. “Steve?” Tony added.

Steve didn’t look at him, but he lingered. “You’re a good guy,” Tony said. _A real swell fella_ , he didn’t add, aware that it would be laying it on too thick.

Steve still walked off.

Determined to make things right, somehow, Tony opened a drawer with his handy-dandy label-maker and chased down his own Roombas, marking each of them with a new name. They were stupid names, like _Spot_ and _Binky_ , but at least they were names.

Steve never brought it up, and Tony tried not to look in on the private moments of Steve Rogers’ life, the loneliest, quietest times, but he still noticed the Roombas bringing home pennies, and he could not help a small smile.

. o .

A metal heart was not a gift given or received lightly.

“Take a breath,” Steve encouraged him, pausing alongside him on the walkway rather than carrying on ahead. It would probably be wiser to carry on, Tony thought, hunched forward, struggling to take a breath. While a walk on the beach was a welcome break from their everyday jobs, it still entailed getting _to_ and _from_ the beach. And Tony Stark wasn’t the same man he used to be.

“I’m okay,” he huffed, but his legs were weak, his head spinning, and he knew he could sit of his own volition or be taken to the ground by his body. With a grunt, he lowered himself, chanting, “I’m okay.”

Steve considered him for a moment, hand on his shoulder, then eased down next to him, leaning his shoulder against Tony’s. Tony gripped his reactor through his shirt, huffing for breath. “Just take your time,” Steve suggested, the man who had as much of it as he desired.

Tony wanted to make a quippy remark, but he was too focused on pulling down his next lungful of air, wrangling panic with an effort. _Steve’s here. Steve won’t let anything kill you_. “I’ll live to two hundred,” Tony decreed, decidedly breathless. “Just to spite you and the kids.”

“What kids?” Steve asked, a fond, sad smile on his face.

“The—kids,” Tony huffed. “With their _Twitter_. And their _memes_.”

“What’s a—”

“Tell you when you’re older,” Tony wheezed.

Steve left it at that, using Tony’s breathless silence as a window to talk about out the kids back in _his_ day, including their sticks-and-stones sports. It was a welcome reprieve, giving Tony a chance to really catch his breath, even if it took a while.

Steve was very patient with him. With most people—but especially with him. It made the whole “suffering in silence” thing a lot easier, that was for damn sure.

. o .

Charity events, Steve had learned early on, rarely featured the actual recipients of the charity. They were glitzy affairs for big spenders, who enjoyed mingling with the Avengers more than they enjoyed meeting the recipients of their—well, _charity_. If it wasn’t for such a good cause, Steve would have stayed home, not interested in being a show-pony in _two_ centuries.

But it was for cancer research. He could hardly say no to helping people with cancer. At least he wasn’t enlisted to perform in uniform. He just had to show up, mingle for a few hours, and help raise money for people in desperate need. Easy, selfless.

It was still a bad idea, in retrospect. He’d been cranky about showboating, and he’d never been a good actor. His sour mood showed, but it didn’t seem to bother the masses, who lingered at a distance, observing him like he was a kind of _Zoo_ animal. 

The only ones brave enough to approach were sweet-spoken dames. He didn’t have the heart to tell them to leave him be, so he was trapped when their chivalrous husbands made conveniently quick rescues, interceding with a great number of crass jokes before offering an icebreaker handshake.

He’d shaken enough twenty-first century hands for one night, he’d decided, but the night wasn’t even half over, and the clink of glasses and inescapable drone of music were both grating on his nerves. He was quickly moving past mild irritation and into real jitteriness, like something _bad_ was about to happen, and it was with a breath of real relief when he felt Tony tug his sleeve and mutter, “Wanna blow this popsicle stand?”

Despite being two of the main attractions, they slipped out surprisingly easily, using darkness and inebriation to their advantage.

Steve felt better in the open air, only to rebound to high alert in the limo, resisting the urge to take the wheel and peel off. Happy Hogan was a competent driver, and getting in a fight would only racket the tension between them, anyway.

Finally, after sitting on the edge of his seat for half an hour, they were free—Steve nearly fell to his knees in relief in the grass, even if the nagging voice told him to check the perimeter, to get his hands on a gun before he got himself into a trouble he couldn’t get out of. He hated Colonel Phillips’ ghost, nudging him towards alertness when he lived in _peace_ , but at least Happy already thought he was unstable and Tony just leaned against the car and light up a smoke, which finally prompted Steve to get up and douse it because, “Tony, _your_ lungs—”

Tony failed to suppress a smirk that said he knew exactly what he was up to as he defended himself with, “Can’t make them _worse_ , can I?” Steve took the bait, completely, arguing that he absolutely _could_ , steering him firmly inside and watching Happy check the doors, just-to-be-sure.

It wasn’t until they were sitting on a couch with a bowl of popcorn and a _Spanish soap opera_ , of all things, that Steve finally relaxed.

They were okay. Their lives were weird, and _they_ were weird, but they were _okay_ , and that was what mattered, at the end of the night.

. o .

Happy Hogan liked his job. 

He liked the satisfaction of occupying the _cop_ role in a perpetual game of cops-and-robbers—all without the one-two step of civil service. Stark’s automated security was already top-notch, but Happy took pride in a job well done. 

It was still a bit weird, having a person-of-interest so near the client—Stark hadn’t given Rogers a special title and Happy wasn’t about to—but at least said-person didn’t interfere with Happy’s job. Much. He was sometimes a bit too demanding of Happy’s security measures, like he was entitled to know how Happy was doing his _job_ , and he was highly untrustworthy.

Had he been consulted prior to the commencement of any non-platonic relationships, Happy would likely have not recommended Rogers for Stark. It wasn’t that he was too old-school, although he definitely was—he had _ghosts_ , maybe even skeletons in the closet. Rogers struck Happy as perpetually volatile, a stranger in a strange land with no compunctions about taking out his grief on those around him.

It would be frankly naïve to entertain the alternative: that a living time capsule could ever become well-adjusted to the wrong century. How could he forgive and let go of _that much_?

And yet—as Happy stepped into the living room, ready to confirm that the perimeter was secure, Happy paused at the edge of the room, momentarily stumped.

Stark dozing in odd places was hardly abnormal, but Happy wasn’t even sure Rogers _needed_ sleep, yet there he was—shut-eyed, chest rising and falling steadily, sitting upright, but chin tucked against his chest. He still looked guarded, and Happy waited for him to reanimate for nearly a minute, just watching them—Stark sprawled across the entire couch, face buried near Rogers’ hip, while Rogers sat up and still, asleep.

Happy took one step into the room and Rogers jerked, head snapping to look at him. Stark slept on, unperturbed, and the flash of undiluted wrath passed just as quickly as it had come as Rogers breathed out a long breath and then looked down at Stark, instead.

“He must trust you. A lot,” Happy said, normal, conversational. Stark slept like the dead; Happy wasn’t surprised he didn’t wake.

Rogers just rested a hand on Stark’s back, and Happy thought, _If you hurt him_ , but then Rogers looked up at him, saying simply, “I’d never hurt him.” At first, Happy had the unsettling feeling that he was a mind-reader—then he remembered his own statement and nodded once.

Announced automatically: “I’m gonna head out, boss.”

Rogers blinked once. The hand on Stark’s back flexed, then stilled again. Then Rogers nodded, and Happy turned to leave.

Sure, Rogers was probably dangerous, maybe even the dreaded _damaged_ , but so was Tony Stark. Maybe they did fit.

Maybe they did fit.

Happy only looked over his shoulder once, briefly, to watch Rogers ease Stark into his arms. It was too intimate, too _personal_ for his eyes to watch, so he rounded the corner and stepped outside the mansion without further comment.

Stark trusted Rogers, and Happy trusted Stark.

. o .

“I love you,” Steve said quietly. “So much.”

Tony snored against his shoulder. Steve rested his cheek against the top of Tony’s head, awake for a long time, appreciating what he held in his arms, what had been given and could be taken away.

He hadn’t expected to find peace with Tony. 

Maybe Natasha, who had known war, or Bruce, who was so desperate to find peace. Clint and Thor had both been unexpectedly friendly, like brothers, welcoming a third into the mix, despite having known each other for a collective sum of _hours_.

Even with his blossoming relationships with the team, Steve hadn’t been _happy_ , exactly. Profoundly lonely but briefly content, he had almost taken Thor’s offer to join him for a “bout of merriment and jubilee” on Asgard, an offer Clint had had to regretfully decline. Steve had had no reason _not_ to take it, and maybe several reasons to try—if nothing else, it might have helped him forget, at least for a while.

But there was another offer on the table, and he had taken it, instead. Tony had given him a home. The futurist had helped him find peace, with the Avengers and the new century.

Maybe it was just because Tony didn’t always talk to him, didn’t always try to buddy up to him or give him space, but instead existed alongside him in perfect, undemanding silence. With the others, Steve had to put on a show, be a good leader, a good friend. With Tony, he could just— _be_.

It was comforting. It was easy.

The sun was actually coming up when he finally shut his eyes, but he let himself drift off, anyway, satisfied with his lot in life.

If he had to be stuck anywhere—he was glad it was with Tony.

. o .

Tony awoke _carefully_.

He had to be, because there was a warm weight draped across him, and steady, even breaths nearby, and he knew from experience that one wrong move would alter that perfect state of equilibrium.

He wasn’t fearful, no—not at all, and he did move freely about the cabin, shuffling closer to the radiator in front of him. Steve’s breathing didn’t change, but his grip tightened a little in response. He held Tony like a life raft, one leg curled around both of Tony’s, one arm firm around his back.

It was still surreal to have _Captain America_ in his bed, even if the paragon of American virtue was literally just sleeping. He didn’t know what he would have expected from his childhood hero, but it wasn’t what he found.

Steve Rogers was quiet where Captain America was loud; when they talked about the Avengers Initiative (because _we’ve gotta claim this shit before the Counsel does, buddy_ ), Steve always looked at him in a way that said, _All right: talk_ before offering Captain America’s two cents. He wasn’t soft-spoken, but even when he gave his opinion, he framed it in few words, a less-is-more kind of guy. He _listened_ , too, in a way that Tony honestly didn’t think existed anymore—somehow, none of the stories about Cap’s bravery had ever iterated just how _important_ Steve Rogers made people feel when he gave them his full attention.

But the people who had known Cap had memorialized him with a fondness that hinted at it. Like it was a given, and Tony had vowed to add it formally to the records, only to decide against it, because it was _his_ secret, along with everyone else who had encountered him.

Nobody ever mentioned that Captain America had an on-switch, either, but maybe nobody else had ever had the privilege to test it out. As it was: Tony pressed his palm against Steve’s back, just enough pressure that it wasn’t an accidental movement, and Steve stretched almost like a cat, his entire body shifting as he awoke. Tony kissed the underside of his chin, delighting in the moment, and Steve murmured, “Tony?” in that deep voice that would make anyone fall in love, twice.

Tony said back, “Hi,” and shut his eyes with a quiet, pleased smile as Steve exhaled a tired laugh.

“You wake me up just to say hi?”

Tony hummed noncommittally, then added: “And I have to pee.”

Steve sighed, releasing his grip. “Always a charmer.”

“You know it.” Tony wriggled back, looked at sleepy blue eyes, and kissed the tip of his nose. Steve scrunched it up belatedly. “Also: I missed you.”

“’m right here,” Steve muttered, almost petulantly, shutting his eyes as soon as Tony wriggled off the bed.

Feeling buoyant—a nightmare-free night was a good night, indeed—Tony actually tackled the Steve-shaped lump under the covers upon his return. Steve grumbled wordlessly, then turned onto his stomach, muttering, “Five more minutes.”

“Rise and shine, sunshine,” Tony said instead, lying on his back and exulting, “day’s not getting any younger.”

Steve just breathed into the pillow, and Tony asked honestly, “Did you actually fall asleep?”

“Go away,” Steve grumbled. “Or be quiet.”

Tony said, “I choose neither.” He tried to wriggle back under the covers, but Steve formed a tight cocoon around himself, anticipating the maneuver. “Asshole. I’m _cold_.”

Steve sighed, like he was really considering telling Tony to get bent, and then, flicked a corner of the covers up. Tony scurried underneath it, pressing up against his side and resting his cheek against the back of Steve’s shoulder. “Mm,” he sighed contentedly.

Steve breathed deeply and evenly for a few more seconds, and then, irresistibly, Tony said, “You’re like a pillow made out of marble.”

“Tony,” Steve whined. _Whined_. “Five minutes.”

Tony said, “That’s a long time,” and could almost hear Steve reply, _Then go play somewhere else_. Steve held his silence, and Tony allowed, “I’ll be good.”

“Mm.”

The oddly intimate vantage of lying partially across Steve’s back and shoulders meant he could actually _feel_ Steve fall asleep again, the tension leaving his spine in a wave. The melodic pattern of Steve’s breathing was calming—another secret the papers somehow neglected to share, and one Tony would take to the grave; he was beginning to see _why_ there were so many secrets regarding Steve Rogers, since people would kill for the chance to be this close to him—but he stayed fully awake to enjoy it.

Five minutes quickly became half an hour, a quarter of Steve’s standard rest cycle, and Tony knew the power nap to end all power naps was stretching on a little too long when Steve’s muscles started tensing before breaking out into shivers. He rubbed firm circles into Steve’s back, and when that didn’t work, he murmured, “Wake up,” and felt Steve stiffen up, for a moment frozen.

“Just me,” Tony said, and Steve relaxed again. “We’re okay.”

Steve sighed. “Too long,” he muttered, shuffling under Tony.

Tony shrugged, then moved away so he could sit up. “Sure, when _I_ sleep three hours, it’s ‘not enough’ and ‘bad for my heart’—”

Steve rolled his eyes affectionately, giving him a little shove that barely rocked him. “You’re so—precious, Tony,” he said, which did probably dangerous things to Tony’s heart. “Gotta be good to yourself,” he added, shuffling out of bed.

“What for? That’s why I have _you_ ,” Tony said cheekily.

Steve shut the bathroom door behind himself firmly in response.

No, he wasn’t like the Captain America in the comic books, or even the real Captain America his Dad had spent a lifetime searching for. He was just Steve Rogers—a hard shell to crack and the light of Tony’s life.

Wouldn’t have it any other way, honestly, Tony thought, hopping out of bed and deciding maybe-oh-maybe he could share a morning shower with Steve.

Steve made him feel brave. And that was a very precious thing, indeed.


End file.
